


Dizzy

by laratoncita



Series: This Town I Live In [7]
Category: The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Female Friendship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Period Typical Attitudes, Slice of Life, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-01-16 07:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18517162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: 1971-1972: a year in the life of Isabel Mathews. Featuring such fun as: Vicky Trouble-Is-Literally-My-Middle-Name Bernal, ex-boyfriends recently released from jail, and trying to pretend you’re 100% sure your brother is going to come home safely from Vietnam.





	1. Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> chapter title courtesy of John Denver. if you've read my other works i promise this is WAY lighter, though again i have no idea how long this will be or when it will be updated. consider it a slice-of-life. as always, i own nothing!

The day Two-Bit ships out, Isabel Mathews gets home from the bus station, throws herself on the couch, and cries herself sick. Her mother left to work immediately after dropping her off, which means she has no one to feel embarrassed in front of, and she spends at least an hour with her face in a pillow, barely able to breathe but entirely unwilling to listen to herself bawl. It's bad enough she's crying in the first place.

By the time she's finished her head feels full of cotton, her face hot to the touch. Around her eyes it's worse, swollen, and when she tries to inhale a whistling noise seems unfairly loud in the empty house. She breathes in deeply through her mouth, and more hot tears slip from her eyes despite herself. She can feel another bout building up in her chest, and feels a bit hysterical. Surely she has nothing left in her. Her head is pounding, anyway, and she's suddenly exhausted, despite it being perhaps seven or eight in the evening. It's late summer, a Thursday, and she has her first quiz of the school year the next day.

She goes to the kitchen and bends over the sink, trying to fit her face underneath the faucet like she used to when she made a mess during dinner and it was her brother who was babysitting. He used to pick her up, the kind of painful manhandling that was fun when someone's a child, hoisted by the waist and hooked over the sink as best as she could be. In the summers it was best, leaning underneath the spout and having a flash of cold water splash against her spaghetti sauce-stained face. Their father had left the year Two-Bit turned eleven, just after Izzy's fifth birthday. That last stretch of winter bled into a painful spring, like an open wound that wouldn't scab over, but summer came like a savior.

Two-Bit, for the first time in their shared lives, didn't complain a lick about her tagging along with him whenever he would cross the street and head for the Curtis'. She didn't even ask to go, she doesn't think, and instead followed his lead when he told her to come with him. Perhaps he understood the sudden need for her to have him in her sights at all hours, or maybe he feared the same thing she did. She would wake up some mornings wondering why her father hadn't come for her, and she wondered, as she still does now, if it's a memory that Two-Bit can't help but hang onto.

That was back in '59, though, before Tulsa and the world had sunk its claws into all of them. Part of it makes Izzy sick with grief; part of it makes her feel like she's lying, just a little bit. After all, she's just some girl. Johnny Cade wasn't one of her friends, and she was half-afraid of Dallas Winston when he died. She accidentally read part of one newspaper report on it in the days following his death and her mother had smacked it out of her hand, saying something about disrespecting the dead.

At twelve she hadn't known Dally to be anything _but_ disrespectful. At seventeen she feels a little hollow at the thought of dying.

She's barely patting her face dry with a paper towel when someone starts knocking on the door. It's a familiar knock. She wonders if ignoring it will make the person go away.

"I know you're here, Mathews," says Vicky Bernal. "Let me in."

If pressured to admit it, Izzy would admit that the youngest Bernal girl is, in fact, her best friend. It's hard not to be, when they've known each other since the age of twelve, both had (or have, if Vicky's feeling honest) a soft spot for the Curtis boys, and live only two blocks from one another, making sneaking out a part-time hobby. Vicky was quite literally in the next room when Izzy lost her virginity to Roland Adams back in May. She couldn't trick her if she tried.

When Izzy opens the door Vicky makes a face. One between pitying and vaguely disgusted.

"You look like shit," Vicky tells her, and Izzy attempts to sigh. She's not very successful, considering her nose feels stuffed and her head is killing her, but she's been told it's the thought that counts when it comes to these sorts of things.

"Thank you," says Izzy, "I just stopped crying."

"Of course you did," Vicky says, pushing passed her and into the kitchen. Izzy listens as the tell-tale signs of someone digging through the pantry starts up. "I swear, half the time I come see you you've just finished bawling."

"Don't exaggerate," Izzy says, voice still stuffed up. "And don't go burning down my house, we both know you can't cook."

"No one ever taught me how," she says airily, "and I know you haven't eaten dinner yet. I'm not gonna let you starve yourself just 'cause your brother went and got drafted."

Izzy could say something mean about Curly Shepard, but she won't. Besides, Angela left town earlier in the month and Vicky's touchy about it, even if she's pretending she isn't and also doesn't realize that Izzy knows why. Like the two of them are any good at hiding secrets from each other, even when they want to be.

"You should know how to cook by now," Izzy tells her instead, "you and your daddy have been on your own since Lisa left town."

"I am very good at casseroles," she says, carefully, "and you can't go wrong with spaghetti."

"You can if you're eating it every two days," says Izzy, "but you sure don't look it."

Vicky, for all her hair looks half-wild since she never brushes it, or if she does it doesn't help much, looks a lot like that one actress Izzy's seen in the movies old man Bernal watches. Real pretty. She's caught a glimpse here and there whenever she and Vicky hang out at the Bernal place instead of the Mathews', Lilia P-something or other. Vicky's hair is a lot lighter and her chin is sharper, but other than that she's a dead ringer for the woman. She's all long legs and, well, _tight_. Looks scrawny in the summers when she runs around doing nothing all day, chain-smoking, sure, but still real pretty, regardless.

Izzy don't think she's bad-looking. She's just as tall as Vicky, who's a little taller than most girls, and even if her hair's real orange it's easy to manage. Smooth to the touch and down her back, even if she just pulls it up into a ponytail more often than not. She credits that condition crème she splurged on at the beginning of the summer, when the heat started giving her a frizz she never had to deal with before. Izzy considers it the only good thing to come out of the summer, save for maybe her finally dumping Roland.

Then again, Two-Bit getting sent across the world to kill people probably makes it one of the worst summers of her life, probably _the_ worst, and just like that Izzy's sniffling best as she can and covering her face with her hands.

"Oh, honey," Vicky says, like she has any idea what it feels like to send someone off to war, and stops rummaging through the fridge to put her arms around her. Izzy cries into her shirt while she makes cooing sounds, like a mourning dove. She's probably running her shirt.

Vicky rubs her back and then makes her lie down on the couch again, face-up this time, putting a blanket over her like it's not nearly ninety degrees out. She feels exhausted.

"I'm going to make you some spaghetti," Vicky says, "because I don't know how to cook meat and your ma'll kill me if I burn down the house with you in it. Is that okay? I can go pick us up some burgers instead."

"I'm not hungry," says Izzy, and Vicky touches her forehead.

"I'll leave it on the stove for you," she says, and goes back to the kitchen.

At some point she must fall asleep, and when she wakes up she's alone again. She sits up, groggy. It's dark outside and in the house, and for a second Izzy's not exactly sure where she is. Her head is so heavy.

But the entire house smells like tomato. When she gets to the kitchen she flips all the lights on, finds three portions of spaghetti measured out and a note. _For today and tomorrow, don't forget about your quiz_ , in Vicky's familiar scrawl. She has awful handwriting. Everything about Vicky's a little messy, but in a way that lets a person know she'll show them a good time and won't regret it. Izzy's always admired that about her, and never more than when she's sitting at the table after a tear-induced nap, eating cold spaghetti like it's fit for a king.


	2. Reasons to Believe

Friday night finds Izzy hanging out with Vicky, which is not the norm and has her feeling the slightest bit like she’s in an episode of the Twilight Zone. For the last year or so, her best friend has been spending nearly every Friday night with Angela Shepard, under the guise of wanting someone to help her hustle all the dumb hoods that chase after her.

Izzy’s smart, so she knows that the two of them were something like an item, or at least the closest thing girls like them could be around these parts. Vicky’s—not easy, exactly, but— _friendlier_ than she needs to be. It’s the euphemism Izzy’s going to use. Besides, Angela’s husband wasn’t found with his brains blown out until April. Izzy’s pretty sure she did it, or that one of her brother’s men did. Maybe even Tim.

Either way, what Izzy’s getting at is that she knows Vicky was sneaking around with Angela, Lord knows why, or at least she was when she wasn’t with some Brumly boy or another, and now has a girl-sized absence in her life to fill on Friday nights. Izzy might be convinced to share a bed with her when they crash at the other’s place, but she figures that, as her best friend, she probably owes Vicky a little bit of her time, even if she puts her foot down about heading over to Buck’s.

It’ll be a cold day in hell that she listens to country music.

“There’s nothing wrong with country music,” Vicky’s telling her. They’re at the Dingo, since it’s clear she’s in a sociable mood and going to Joe’s ain’t an option anymore now that Izzy’s dumped Roland. It’s a small price to pay for not having to pretend he’s good in bed. “Everyone rags on it like it’s as bad as, I dunno, the Beatles.”

“I like the Doors,” Izzy reminds her, “or Zeppelin. If you make me listen to Crazy again _I’m_ the one who’s going to lose her mind.”

“Patsy Cline is a legend,” Vicky says, “you just have no taste.”

“Are we still talking country music?” Izzy says. “Vicky. I need you to think about what you just said.”

That earns her an unimpressed look.

“Anyway,” Vicky says, “did you read that book I gave you? Sartre?”

“Why are you making me read about existentialism,” she says, not even lilting the phrase like it’s a question, because she knows she either won’t get an answer or it won’t make sense. “Actually, why are _you_ reading about existentialism? You got a C in English last semester.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Vicky says, making her eyes go big. The expression has kept her from getting arrested a couple times. “I usually make Bs, I just forgot to hand in the final paper.”

“…that still doesn’t—”

“You should read it,” Vicky says, “it’s real good. Lisa’s the one who recommended it.”

“Okay,” Izzy says, because she knows better than to challenge any preconceived notion Vicky has that hinges on her sister’s word. For all the two love to argue there’s an underlying vein of affection there, like the arguments are just a way of hiding how utterly devoted the girls have always been to each other. It probably has something to do with Lisa practically raising Vicky, though not in the way Darry Curtis raised his brothers, since their daddy worked so much. Maybe it’s just a sister thing, and Izzy will never know. She says, “But have you started your readings for Philips?”

“I have all weekend for that,” Vicky says, like she isn’t going to go find her most recent Brumly conquest and pretend she don’t miss Angela soon as Izzy drops her off.

“Sure,” Izzy says, and she hopes it’s clear she doesn’t believe her. “How is Lisa, anyway?”

“Oh, you know,” Vicky says, waving a hand, “the usual. Organizing with all the Mexicans up in Chicago, causing trouble like she likes.”

“Not the trouble she got up to down here?” Izzy raises an eyebrow. It drives her mother crazy, her and Two-Bit saying things as deadpan as they can and then hitting her with that famous Mathews’ eyebrow lift. Or, it’s famous in Tulsa, at least.

“She’s what they call _politically enlightened_ ,” Vicky says, taking a bite of her club sandwich, “which means she tells cops to bite it and they can’t do anything so long as she don’t do much more than say it to them. I’m gonna have to wire her money one’a these days when they finally decide to haul her in.”

“She’s too smart for that,” Izzy says, and it makes Vicky grin. Lisa _is_ too smart for that, but trouble seemed to find her all too easily while she was still in Oklahoma. Hell, from what Izzy knows about the Bernals, even Texas was full of it. She really did need to head North to escape it all.

Vicky’s not much better, but she’s not as bad as she used to be. Freshman year was the worst for her, but she doesn’t do worse than smoke pot now, at least as far as Izzy knows, so she figures she’s okay now. Vicky says she’s going to move to Chicago as soon as graduation comes, but Izzy keeps reminding her that as much as they love each other her sister ain’t going to let her freeload. Better for her to work for the summer and then head up to Chicago, so that she has a few months’ rent saved up and Lisa won’t have a reason to tell her no.

Lisa won’t _want_ to tell her no, Izzy knows this, but Lisa’s the kind of responsible that Vicky’s never had to be. That’s the only _real_ argument they ever have.

After they’ve finished dinner, Vicky says, “What are we doing now?”

“I’m not going to Buck’s,” says Izzy, probably the hundredth time she’s said so, and Vicky rolls her eyes at her. They’re in Izzy’s little Vista Cruiser, which she loves dearly even if she don’t know a thing about cars, not like Vicky or Steve Randle or even Sodapop Curtis. She bought it in the spring, after over a year of saving up from her job selling tickets at the movie theater. Two-Bit used to bother her to let him borrow it, since his car—miraculously— is _still_ on its last legs, and she feels bad, now, for always saying no.

“Let’s head to the DX,” she says.

“I’m not going to stand around and watch you flirt with Soda,” says Izzy. Vicky laughs.

“I gotta ask what he’s doing tomorrow,” Vicky says, “I wanna go dancing. You should come with.”

“I ain’t half the dancer you are,” she says.

“So? You’re not bad, either.”

Izzy shrugs, starts the car anyway. Vicky and Sodapop as dance partners is probably the former’s longest relationship, and she’s not one to get in the way of that. She likes the Curtis brothers just fine, always has, and not just because Two-Bit’s friends with all three on his own merits. Mrs. Curtis was a good friend to her ma, and she remembers hanging out at their place even before her father ever left. Back then the house always smelled like lemon and chocolate, the place stunningly clean despite three growing boys. She used to get one of those famous chocolate cakes for her birthday every year, remembers the way all of them would end up with a smear of icing across their face, how her damp, freshly-washed face would freeze during the short walk home. It doesn’t hurt to think of anymore.

That she had a brief crush on Ponyboy from the ages of eleven to thirteen, well. That’s her business. And Vicky’s, apparently, considering how she likes to reminder about it.

(“Me having a crush on a boy when I was twelve should not _still_ be brought _up_ , Bernal,” if she’s said it once, she’s said it a thousand times.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” Vicky said once, eyes big and shining like she was being serious, one of the few times she was willing to admit she was crazy about Ponyboy despite her actions never matching up to the sentiment, “I know first loves are—”)

Anyway, most girls have crushes on the Curtis boys. Darry’s got a steady girlfriend now, some middle-class girl named Dottie something or other. Nice girl, dark hair like Darry’s and the prettiest eyes Izzy’s ever seen. Broke the hearts of half the girls in Tulsa, when that news broke. The other half are still chasing after Soda, and that’s only because Ponyboy left for school awhile back and spends all his time in town with Vicky when he’s on break.

Izzy’s not sure how two people who are so smart—Vicky, who reads Sartre and Raja Rao in her free time but who can’t be bothered to hand in any papers on their due dates, Ponyboy away on a full scholarship after having skipped a year back in middle school—can’t seem to realize they’re seeing eye to eye. It drives her nuts, sometimes.

The DX is maybe fifteen minutes to close when they show up, and Sodapop makes a big show out of them showing up so late.

“What are you cruising for tonight, ladies?” he says, slouched against the counter. He’s been working here as long as Izzy can remember, meaning since she was eleven or twelve, but he’s always acted like he’s real glad to have the job. Probably because he is, but Izzy’s never met a worker that could smile like that and mean it.

“Just a good time,” Vicky says, fluttering her eyelashes at him and laughing when he pretends to swoon. Izzy leans her hip against the counter, holds herself up on an elbow, and watches them with something like amusement. They go back and forth for a moment about going out the next night, and then Soda agrees like always. Vicky beams, like she ever doubted her abilities to convince him.

Soda’s got a soft spot for both Bernal girls, treats the youngest almost like a little sister. He and Lisa go back, since the summer they first moved to town, and it helps that Steve’s still crazy about her. The feeling might be mutual, though both sisters have an issue with being honest with themselves. Izzy’s biggest issue is being _too_ honest with herself, which inevitably results in her breaking her own heart and spending half a night crying about it. Usually it’s about the trouble Two-Bit gets up to, but she had a boyfriend from Tiber Street that got hauled in once and had just about lost her mind until her brother came in talking about, _This is why I don’t want you hanging out with him, kiddo,_ and anyway, that fizzled out after his sentencing, back during her sophomore year. Her throat feels scratchy, like she needs to cough or something, just at the thought of Two-Bit’s voice.

Soda turns to her then, says, “How you holding up, Izzy?” and she has to blink away the sudden tears that spring up.

“Please don’t make her cry,” says Vicky, and Izzy shoots her a dirty look.

“I’m okay,” Izzy says, because no one needs to know more about her tendency for weeping than they already do. Bad enough that Vicky had to deal with it the night before. Soda nods like he understands.

“He’ll be back before we know it,” he offers, but something about his smile rings false, now.

Izzy shrugs, straightens up a bit. The clock behind Soda reads nearly ten, which means he should start closing up shop soon.

He follows her gaze and says, “Time to go, ladies,” still cheerful as ever.

“You up to anything fun tonight?” Vicky asks, a hungry look in her eyes, and Izzy hopes she doesn’t get up to too much trouble once she’s out of Izzy’s sight.

“Nah,” Soda says, “I gotta new gig starting Monday, prob’ly gonna lay low for the rest of the weekend.”

“Oh?” Vicky says, still intrigued. “You’re done at the DX, then?”

“Yeah,” he says, “not much by way of promotions here anymore. Figured it was time to move on.”

“Where’re you working, then?” Izzy asks. When he grins Izzy sees him at nine again, chocolate on his teeth and his hair bleached from the sun.

“I’ll be working with you, actually,” he says, “at the movie theater. I’m in charge of the kitchen.”

“ _You’re_ in charge?” Vicky’s eyebrows shoot up real high. She crosses her arms, cocks a hip. Somehow she makes the moves look real graceful, and not like she’s got enough of an attitude to get by just fine over in Brumly and the Shepard’s territory, besides.

“Yeah,” Soda says, “respect your elders, Bernal, just ‘cause you can’t appreciate high art—”

“Food coloring does not make it _art_.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he boasts, “I got the job. Supervisor, could get a promotion by next summer if they like me enough.”

“ _Everyone_ likes you enough,” Izzy says, unthinkingly, and his responding smile is dazzling. She blinks.

“You gonna give us free drinks?” Vicky asks, “Izzy don’t even gimme free tickets, and your brother used to sneak us in all the time.”

“Aw, that’s ‘cause Ponyboy’s sweet on you,” Soda says, and Izzy watches in fascination as Vicky flushes. If it were just the two of them Izzy’d push the matter a bit, but she decides to take mercy on her friend instead.

“Good for you,” she tells Soda, “guess I’ll see you around work then, huh?”

“You bet, Miss Matthews,” he says, and then offers them each a complimentary root beer before he locks the place up.


	3. No Sunshine

With the end of August comes college application season. Izzy feels like she’s been gearing up for this moment the past year, has been so busy studying and taking exams and prepping essays that when September finally hits she’s nearly frozen with fear at the thought of it being all over soon. Vicky’s no help, either.

“What do you mean you ain’t applying anywhere?” Izzy demands over lunch. They have gym sixth period, besides first lunch together. Izzy’s frazzled and looks it, nearly walking into school with her dress unbuttoned and her brassier showing. Vicky caught her in the parking lot and complimented it, which is the only reason the whole school doesn’t know what her nipples look like.

Vicky, unfortunately, has long known. Hazards of being friends with someone through puberty and with as little shame as the Bernal girl.

“I mean I’m not applying anywhere,” Vicky says. She manages to push the dress code to the limit once a week and never get caught. Today it’s a decent skirt and blue button up. The caveat is that she’s unbuttoned it one button further than Izzy would recommend. Unlike her, Vicky forwent a bra.

“But Tulsa Jun—”

“I’m not applying.”

“But why _not_?” This is one of the things that drives Izzy crazy. Vicky’s smart. Smartest girl she knows, spends her free time reading shit Izzy can barely wrap her head around. Sure, she hasn’t gotten a higher grade than a B in science or math in the entire time they’ve known each other, but she’s regularly gotten As in history and occasionally in English, too, and it’s not like she’s managed to flunk art or home ec, despite her lack of cooking skills. She always makes As in those. If Izzy’s a better student it’s not by much, which means that at the very least Tulsa Junior College, still sort-of new, will take her.

Izzy’s applying there too, after all. Tulsa University, OSU, even Southern Methodist University, down in Texas. She’s not sure where else to apply, but she doesn’t want to risk applying somewhere where she has no chance of getting in. She wishes Vicky would join her, if not in school then at the very least in being appropriately cowed by the whole process.

But Vicky hates school.

“I hate school,” she says. “The only reason I’m here is because Lisa’d kill me if I dropped out.”

“You’re so smart,” Izzy says, “why don’t you at least apply and see if they give you some money? Then you can take classes without having to pay anything.”

“Why?” Vicky says, picking at the half-melted green Jello dessert on her tray. Lunch is slop, like usual, and Izzy’s been gnawing on an apple the past twenty minutes. “I barely make decent grades here, and I’m not even in honors classes, like you.”

“I was only in honors biology,” Izzy says, “and honors with Philips ain’t much different than the regular hour, you know.”

“It’s different enough to be _honors_ ,” Vicky says, rolling her eyes. “Face it, the only school I’d get into is the junior college.”

“So? I’m applying there too.”

“What, you gonna turn down OSU if they come calling?”

Izzy says nothing. Vicky huffs.

“It’s a back-up for you,” she says, “and that’s alright, there’s nothing wrong with that. But I ain’t interested in a degree, not even a two-year one. I got until May to figure out what I’m doing, and I can always move up to Chicago and stay with Lisa.”

Izzy doesn’t bring up the issue of work. Says, “I just don’t want you to feel stuck.”

“I _am_ stuck,” Vicky says, real matter-of-fact. Izzy flinches despite herself, and it makes Vicky laugh a little. “Why you worried about me, anyway?”

“Vicky, we’re best friends,” says Izzy, like that’s the only reason. Truth of the matter is she already knew Vicky was stuck. Has been, maybe since the second she was born. Definitely since Curly died, at the very least. Izzy don’t think she was planning on ever being his steady, but after he died, shit. Whole town felt half empty in a way it hadn’t before, despite all its boys being overseas.

Before that, too, when she was messing around with Mark despite Izzy’s vocal opposition. That was just a bad year. Izzy’s glad it’s over, even if sometimes she thinks it left a deeper mark on Vicky than she’ll admit. At the end of the day, she doesn’t want Vicky stuck in Tulsa for the rest of their lives. Izzy thinks _she_ could manage it, maybe, if she gets a degree first, but without one she doesn’t know what Vicky could do. She worked at the ice cream parlor over the summer and hated it. The girl’s not built for decent work, and Izzy don’t like to think about what that really means.

“Aw,” Vicky coos, “I knew you liked me.”

“I didn’t say that,” Izzy says immediately, and then the bell rings. “Ugh.”

“C’mon,” Vicky says, “I’ve gotta go make Philips wish she never went into teaching. We’re reading _The Great Gatsby_ and she won’t let me say shit about how the American dream is a lie.”

“They’re going to put you on a list one of these days,” Izzy says, standing up and following after Vicky to return their trays. “You read too much Fanon.”

“Oh, you should read about what the president of Chile is doing,” Vicky says brightly, and Izzy’s even not sure she’s heard of that country, though it does sound the slightest bit familiar. “Salvador Allende, it’s so cool.”

Izzy don’t speak Spanish, but even she can tell that Vicky’s over-pronouncing the guy’s name.

Instead, she says, “You’re going to get arrested.”

“What, for reading?” Vicky raises an eyebrow. “I’d like to see them try.”

“One day, flirting with the police won’t get you out of trouble,” Izzy tells her. Despite her best efforts, she’s grinning.

“Well today’s not that day, is it,” Vicky says, smirking, and then flounces off to class, Izzy laughing after her.

She’s still thinking about the conversation when she gets home, but all she thinks of lately is college and how she’s not going to get in anywhere, so that’s not all too surprising. She doesn’t work during the week, just Thursday through Saturday. It’s barely the third week of classes, first full one of September. She has a personal statement written and awaiting final edits, but just looking at the sheets of paper makes her feel anxious enough to steal a cigarette from Two-Bit’s abandoned pack in the kitchen and sit on the back steps to smoke it.

It won’t take that long to finish it, she keeps telling herself, wishing the cigarette was menthol and not the Reds that Two-Bit prefers. She smokes it anyway, pretends it’s because she doesn’t want to go upstairs and look for her own pack. It’s not like she likes smoking all that much, anyway—just when she’s feeling a little out of sorts. That she’s often out of sorts lately means nothing.

College shouldn’t be scary. It should be a given, that she’s going to apply and get in and do something with her life that ain’t bartending like her ma. Not that her ma likes bartending, but like Vicky Bernal, she’s stuck. Makes her want to hate her father when she thinks about it like that, about how him walking out couldn’t have come at a worst time. She was barely five years old. Not even a month into the new year and he split. Funny, how every year his face gets a little blurrier in her memory. Does Two-Bit look more like him or does she? Does it matter?

By the time she’s calm enough to get back to working on her applications her ma’s come into the kitchen, a large pot on the stove meaning they’ll be having soup for dinner.

“Ain’t it too hot for soup?” Izzy says, and tucks Two-Bit’s abandoned pack of cigarettes back into its drawer. Her ma pretends not to see, and Izzy appreciates it. She’s a smoker, too, and as much as she got on Two-Bit and Izzy to quit, lately she don’t say anything. Hasn’t, since Two-Bit’s notice came in. It’s funny, really. Izzy didn’t smoke half as much before that damn letter came.

“It will make us feel less hot,” her ma tells her. She’s real pretty, and not just ‘cause she’s her mother. Thick, long hair, beautiful eyes. Skin that’s always the perfect shade of sun-kissed. Some might say the her only problem’s that her accent ain’t never gone away, not even with over twenty years in the States. Her ma came over from Crete after the Second World War, but she doesn’t much like to talk about it even if her English can’t hide the truth. Doesn’t wear a cross like the Orthodox ladies downtown, either. Izzy’s not ready to confront that yet. Maybe one day. “Are you still working on your college things?”

She pronounces everything real carefully, like she’s still not sure she’s saying it right but don’t want nobody to correct her. Izzy could listen to her all day long, used to beg her to read to her before bed, was sometimes even able to get a story about the motherland from her. Hasn’t gotten one out of her in years, now.

“Yeah,” Izzy tells her, sitting back down again. The whole kitchen smells like basil. “I’m applying to four schools.”

“Oh?” she sounds—worried, maybe. “Which ones?”

She lists off the big ones first, then, “And, you know, the junior college, just in case.”

Her mother hums. Turns her back to stir the soup again.

“Isabel…” she starts. Her name has always sounded odd, coming from her mother. Like all the syllables were in the wrong order, like she wants to call her Liz and not Izzy. She wonders if it was an argument between her and her father, the decision to name her and Two-Bit the names they don’t even use. “Koukla, you know we do not have money to send you away.”

“I’m applying to Tulsa,” Izzy says. She doesn’t like how defensive she sounds.

“It is so expensive there,” she says, “and you spend all your money on that car.”

“I need it,” she says. “It’s not like I’m wrecking it, like—” She cuts herself off. Says, softly, “I need to know if I can get in.”

“For what?” her mother says, turning towards her again. She leans against the counter, crosses her arms over her chest. It’s the way she used to stand when her father would try and start an argument. Her stomach sinks.

“What do you mean, for what?” Izzy says, “I wanna know if they’ll accept me. They might even give me money.”

Her mother makes a noise in her throat, says, “And if they do not give you money? What will you do?”

“Well, the junior college probably won’t give me money,” Izzy says, “so I don’t see why that matters much.”

“Oh? And if you—you get into this O-S-U, and they give you no money, what, are you going to live in the library, Isabel? Are you going to beg for someone to get you over there?”

“Why are you asking me this _now_ ,” Izzy says. She can feel her eyes getting hot, her face flushing. She says, “Why does it matter if I apply somewhere I—I can’t afford? Maybe they’ll give me money.”

“Maybe they will not.”

“Does it hurt to _know?_ ”

Her mother sucks in air through her teeth. Says, “I do not want you getting your hopes up. You should just look at the junior college,” and turns back to fuss with the soup. Izzy stares at her back for a long moment, vision blurring just a bit. Shuts all her notebooks and heads up to her room like her eyes don’t sting.


	4. Sweet and Innocent

To celebrate Izzy’s finally sending off all of her applications—four of them, no matter what her mother said—Vicky decides to take her out to Brumly. Izzy is pointedly excluded from this decision, which is why she is unpleasantly surprised to be driven further South than expected after they grab dinner together on the last Friday of the month.

“Vicky, no,” she says, when she realizes where they’re going.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You can’t offer me up to Isaiah Solis,” she says, “he’s married.”

“He is _not_ married, he just has two kids,” Vicky says, not even turning to look at her. She should have known something was up when she offered to drive, but she was feeling the drain of the week and figured Vicky was willing to deal with driving for once. Rookie mistake. Vicky hates driving.

“Is that. Better?”

“Isaiah’s too busy raising them to bother with girls anymore,” Vicky says, “which, considering his baby mama’s Lourdes ‘I will cut you, _bitch_ ,’ Espinoza, well. I would take a break, too.”

“I can’t believe she said that to you,” Izzy says, definitely sounding dreamy. “You deserved it, you know.”

“All I did was ask if her man had traded up yet,” Vicky complains, “I wasn’t asking for _me_.”

“How else was she supposed to take that?” Izzy says, “And in what world is that something a girl wants to hear?”

“I was fourteen,” she says, “I was the dumbest girl in Tulsa at that age.”

“…am I supposed to argue with you _now_?”

“Yes,” Vicky says, reaching over to pinch her, and Izzy barely manages to avoid it. “It’s not Isaiah’s party, technically, but my dealer might be there actually.”

“Is this the one you’re sleeping with?”

“Fucking your dealer is tricky business,” Vicky says, with the air of someone who unfortunately knows it, “so no, I’m not screwing around with him. Lisandro might be around, though.”

Lisandro Reyes and Vicky have been hooking up on and off since the beginning of the summer, after maybe a year of Vicky avoiding him. She tends to pick a boy and stick with him for a few months before getting caught up in someone else—usually a guy she’s slept with before but hasn’t seen in a while. Likes cycling through them like that; it keeps her from having the kind of reputation that Izzy remembers girls like Sylvia having, not that she remembers much about the girl. She might have split town, too, like so many folks Izzy used to know. Things seem so much different now than when she was a kid.

Izzy doesn’t think she has an opinion on girls like that. Is more worried about Vicky getting caught up with one of her Brumly Boys and accidentally making a baby with one of them. Lisa’d lose her damn mind if something like that were to happen, which is probably why she put Vicky on the pill as soon as she realized she wasn’t going to be able to take her with up to Chicago, back in ’68. Izzy avoided the problem by not letting any of her boyfriends except the most recent one stick it in, not even Christopher, a River King who…should be getting out jail soon, Izzy thinks. Huh.

That doesn’t mean she didn’t screw around; it just meant she wasn’t about to get into an argument with her mother about the pill. It’s not like Roland was any good in bed, besides.

She says, “I thought you were getting tired of him? Doesn’t he deal, too?”

“I mean,” she says, taking a sharper turn than necessary, “it’s Brumly. Who else is there to fuck but drug dealers?”

“Um. You don’t. Have to sleep with any of them if you don’t want to.”

“I didn’t say that,” she says, flashing a grin at Izzy. “Lisandro’s not bad, anyway. Just real sentimental, you know.”

“Didn’t he tell you he loved you that first time you were going out with him?”

“I wasn’t going out with him,” she says, “we’d _go out_ sometimes, but that don’t mean I’m his girl, not then or now. Come on, Izzy.”

Izzy grits her teeth as they speed through a yellow-turned-red light, one hand braced on the dash and the other curled around her seatbelt. Vicky, too, is wearing one, like she always does since the car accident she and Ponyboy got into, but it does little to settle her need for speed. Maybe that’s another reason she gets along so well with Soda, even if Steve is the best driver on the Eastside.

“But yes,” Vicky continues, “he told me he loved me after the first time we had sex and I had to pretend I didn’t hear him. It was the second time he said it that I, you know, made myself real scarce.”

“Right after finals sophomore year, right?”

“Yup,” she says, voice flatter now, “awful summer. Absolute worst.”

Izzy flinches, thinking of Curly Shepard. Feels guilty every time she thinks that him being buried was going to happen sooner rather than later, especially when she thinks of Vicky’s eyes looking hollow, like everything she did was just an act. Didn’t perk up for weeks and weeks, until she started running ‘round with Angela and—well, doing more than just run around. Izzy took longer than she should have to figure that one out, around Valentine’s Day when, instead of trying to finagle Izzy and Roland into a double date, she shrugged and told them to have fun.

Roland was not a very perceptive person by any means, but even he was confused. Izzy should have known, but she hadn’t pegged Vicky for a—well. She hadn’t realized she liked girls, is all. Is still a little confused, wonders if it was an Angela thing or if some other gal might’ve caught her eye after Curly. There’s a lot there. They haven’t talked about it, after all. Izzy’s pretty sure Vicky doesn’t even know _she_ knows, and besides, Izzy has no idea how or why they’d even need to talk about it. The truth can lie for a little while longer.

“Who’s party is this anyway?” Izzy says after the silence stretches too long. Vicky’s a blabbermouth, usually.

“Well,” she says, like she always does when she’s going to say something Izzy won’t like, “Isaiah’s—”

“Oh, my god,” says Izzy, “you _said_ it wasn’t—”

“He doesn’t have time for girls, why are you worried—”

“He’s _killed_ people—”

“Oh, come on, that doesn’t count—”

“What!” Izzy isn’t shrieking, and will deny it if anyone says differently. “Vicky, just because you screw around with a few of his guys doesn’t mean he’s _good people_.”

“Marcos just got out of jail,” she says, far too haughty for Izzy’s liking, “and they’re throwing a party for him, like a family thing.”

“A family thing.”

“Marcos is a cousin.”

“And a member of their _gang_ ,” Izzy says, staring out the window as they turn onto a street that seems especially lively. “We could have gotten Soda to buy us booze if you just wanted to drink.”

“Getting drunk in your room gets old sometimes,” she says, pulling into a parking spot opposite the loudest house on the block, “I want to _dance_.”

“All you do is dance,” Izzy says, and then, when Vicky climbs out of the car without looking at her, “Vicky, for the love of—”

Vicky opens the passenger door for her. Cocks a hip, places her hand there as an afterthought. Says, exasperated, “We’re already _here_.”

“This is kidnapping.”

She snorts. Turns on her heel and starts walking, leaving Izzy little choice but to follow after her.

“I have work in the morning,” Izzy says when she catches up to her.

“You need to let loose,” Vicky says, smiling prettily at the guy with the shaved head who opens the door for them. He looks amused. “Qué onda, Goose?”

“Bernalita,” he says, voice raspy from what Izzy guesses is a lifetime of cigarette use. “You got an invite, huh?”

“Lisandro said I should stop by,” she says, blinking her eyes real wide, and he laughs.

“Y tu amiga?” he asks, giving Izzy a once over. She tries not to let her displeasure show. Vicky tugs her close.

“Oh, my best friend!” she says brightly, “Just broke up with her man, pobrecita, thought she could use a distraction.”

“Excuse me,” says Izzy, and gets another look over, this one a bit more lingering. Makes a mental note to remember this betrayal.

“Vente, pues,” says the guy—Goose. His name is Goose, apparently. He grins, sharp, at the two of them. “Isaiah’s out back. You should say hi to him first.”

“Of course,” Vicky says, and he must know she’s bullshitting because he just rolls his eyes, letting them in before turning and heading up a flight of stairs to their left. To Izzy she says, “C’mon, I actually _should_ say hi to him first. Lisandro’s probably out back too.”

“You can’t immediately disappear to fuck him,” Izzy says immediately, “ _plus_ , Roland and I broke up months ago.”

“You haven’t gotten any action since then,” Vicky says, leading them through the house, towards the sounds of the party. “ _and_ we need to celebrate you being done with all your applications. I swear you’re gonna give yourself an ulcer if you don’t have some fun soon.”

“I still have to wait to hear back from them,” Izzy says as they enter the kitchen, and is promptly ran into by a small child. She looks down at him, finds him blinking up at her for a second before his whole face scrunches up. “Oh no.”

“Pick him up!” Vicky says, taking a step back like he’s some sort of danger to her. Izzy spares her half a disgruntled look before squatting down and opening her arms to the kid. He didn’t fall, but it’s clear he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing in the kitchen. He’s maybe a year or two, with big brown eyes and a mole under one eye. Adorable, and definitely not old enough to be allowed to wander the house by himself.

“Hi honey,” she says to him, “whatcha doing by yourself, huh?” His expression is calmer now, less like he’s about to burst into tears and more interested in trying to figure out what Izzy’s saying to him. Vicky’s pressed up against the counter, which she’ll call her out on later. Babies aren’t scary. “You wanna come here, hon? Let’s find your mom.”

He grins at that, waddling towards her and letting her scoop him up. She puts him on her hip, glaring at Vicky as she does so.

“Do you not know babies?”

“Nope,” she says, “my cousins are all older than me, and in Mexico.”

“There’s no way you’ve never held one before.”

“I don’t do babies,” Vicky says, coming close now to squint at the one in Izzy’s arms. She offers him her hand, like he might reach out and grab it, but he starts patting Izzy’s face instead, grabbing at her hair. He promptly starts yanking.

“Ow, honey, please don’t,” she says, trying to replace her hair with a thumb, and Vicky watches her in poorly concealed horror as she struggles with the kid. “Where is your mother. Do you treat her like this?”

“No,” comes a man’s voice, “but Lourdes is real scary, so that ain’t much of a surprise.”

Izzy freezes. Turns her head as well as she can with a toddler’s fist in her hair, finds Isaiah Solis watching them with his eyebrow arched and something like a grin on his mouth. Vicky clears her throat.

“We were just coming to say hi,” she says, “and look who we found!”

“Who invited you,” he deadpans, raising an eyebrow. She wavers.

“Um.”

“Ven, papas,” he says to the baby, electing to ignore whatever it is that Vicky’s trying to say. He comes close, and the baby immediately releases Izzy’s hair, smiling happily. Izzy’s trying to reconcile her knowledge of Isaiah as a drug dealer, gang leader, and actual killer with him in the moment, smiling softly at his son like he hasn’t done anything wrong in his entire life.

Izzy’s a little bit into it, but she’s not going to admit that.

He raises both eyebrows at them once he’s got his kid in his arms. Izzy swallows, mostly out of nervousness. Next to her, Vicky’s touching her chin in thought.

“Well?”

“Is Lisandro here?” Vicky finally says. “’cause I swear, he said it was okay if I stopped by.”

“Did he say you could bring some white girl?” he asks, and glances at Izzy with a smirk on his face.

“Isn’t your mom a white girl?” Vicky says, arms crossed, and he grins at her.

“Yeah, but my mama ain’t here, Bernal.”

“So it’s a one white girl per party rule, huh? Izzy can be the one today.”

“I am not the one,” Izzy says, when Isaiah looks at her with a considering expression, “I can leave if you want.”

“You’re my ride, though.”

“Vicky,” she says, touching her eyebrow, a tic she’s never grown out of, “please.”

Isaiah looks stupidly entertained, enough that Izzy has to remind herself of his record before she starts making eyes at him. Vicky would never let her live it down, first of all, but his record should mean something, and she shouldn’t be feeling soft, watching him bounce his kid while he looks them over.

Maybe it _has_ been too long.

He says, finally, the words like a drawl, “Y’all had anything to drink yet?”

“No,” Vicky says slowly, “we just walked in. Found the baby. Found you.”

His mouth twists a little, no doubt wondering why the baby was by himself, too, but he shakes his head. Comes close to them again, and Izzy knows Vicky’s holding her breath too. He reaches out and for a minute Izzy thinks her mind is playing tricks on her, but then he pulls out a bottle of tequila. He grins at them.

“You ladies like shots?” he says, and when Vicky grins right back Izzy knows she’s going to hate all three of them in the morning.


	5. Know What I Mean?

Perhaps Izzy wakes up the next day on Isaiah Solis' couch, two children playing with wooden blocks and dolls cheerfully ignoring her while the weatherman drones on about the weather. It smells like fried eggs, and her head is killing her.

From the kitchen she can hear Vicky's cheerful explanation of Lisa's cooking being the best she's ever had, which is probably only true because she herself is an absolute shit cook. That itself might be the result of her resentment towards old man Bernal being a shit person, broadly speaking, and thus refusing to make any effort to make his life the slightest bit enjoyable. Izzy's not quite sure what Vicky's going to do after graduation, though she is worried.

Isaiah says, "That's nice," like he's talking to an overexcited child, and then, "is your white girl up?"

"Why can't you describe her another way," says Vicky, "like my redhead, or my friend, or even, my girl-who-I-brought-to-your-house-and-helped-get-drunk?"

"Niña," Isaiah says, and he for sure must be thinking of Vicky like a child. There's too much amusement there. Izzy should probably say something to prove she's alive, but her head is still pounding and her mouth tastes horribly sour.

When she looks towards the children playing near her she finds the older one—a girl with her hair in two pigtails and a pink dress over a white shirt, her eyes a startling blue—watching her. Izzy tries telepathically asking her to find her a toothbrush, but the girl seems to ignore this, tilting her head at her and pursing her mouth instead. She has to be four or five. She definitely could at least tell the adults in the house that their guest is awake, though she instead goes back to playing with her dolls. To her left, her brother is gnawing on a block.

Izzy thinks she might die here, on this surprisingly comfortable couch, and then Vicky comes into the room.

"You're up!" she says, seemingly delighted for a second before her expression twists. "How long've you been awake?"

"Thirty seconds," Izzy says. Her voice is surprisingly clear. "How much did I drink last night."

"A lot," she says, and comes over to sit on the arm of the couch. "You kept up with Isaiah pretty well but he cut you off after you asked if Lourdes would kill you for being in the same room as him. D'you think he's cute?"

"Isaiah's killed people," Izzy says, like he can't hear her.

Vicky squints. "That doesn't mean—"

"I am very hungover," she says carefully, "and I need to brush my teeth. Where's the bathroom."

"Upstairs," Isaiah says, appearing like a vision. There's an apron tied around his waist. He's in a white tank and blue jeans. Izzy's salivating because of the breakfast smells. No other reason.

"Are you gonna be able to eat breakfast?" Vicky asks her, "Isaiah's making eggs."

"How d'you like them?" Isaiah asks, as if she's not still sprawled across his couch, barely feeling like a person.

"Over easy," she says automatically, and manages to pull into a sitting position that only sets her to head throbbing. Her stomach is surprisingly settled.

"I made you drink water," Isaiah says, a little dry. "I ain't cleaning up after other people's kids."

"Your kids are cute," Vicky offers.

He raises an eyebrow. "I seen the way you look at babies, Bernalita. Might wanna tell Lisandro not to expect any outta you."

"Thank you," Izzy says, standing up while Vicky sputters about Lisandro. "I'm gonna make myself a person real quick."

Isaiah turns back to the kitchen, Vicky trailing after him like she wants to defend her honor for once. Izzy has a hazy recollection of Vicky and Lisandro stumbling out from behind the garage at some point. She thinks that might have been when she was cut off, because soon after Isaiah appears in her memory, two large glasses of water in hand and looking just the slightest bit amused.

She hates how attractive he is. It's just not fair.

She is, however, pleasantly surprised to find that she doesn't look like the monster she was expecting to be. The braid she was wearing has loosened some, sure, but she wasn't wearing much by way of makeup the day before, and must have drunkenly scrubbed most of it off before passing out, considering she _isn't_ looking like a raccoon. She looks tired, sure, but no worse for wear. Maybe she should thank Isaiah for that.

She comes back downstairs quickly, the living room now empty of its tiny inhabitants, though the TV volume is still cranked the slightest bit too high. Izzy lowers it before coming into the dining room, and finds the four of them—Vicky, Isaiah, and his two children whose names she was told the day before but has, of course, forgotten—sitting around it like a family. If her head didn't hurt so bad she'd laugh at the thought of Vicky being someone's housewife, though the odds of her getting hitched to someone like Isaiah are probably higher than they should be.

"Well ain't this a sight for sore eyes," she says despite herself, and Isaiah doesn't look up from where he's serving his son—Benjamin, that's his name—some scrambled eggs.

"Sit down and eat," he says, and for some reason she feels obliged to listen to him. Lord knows no one's ordered her around in ages.

Vicky doesn't count.

Izzy smothers her eggs and potatoes in ketchup, like usual, and takes a bite. These might be the best eggs she's had in ages. Her mom's come out too dry, and she tends to just make scrambled before school. Vicky makes omelets, sometimes, which are good, but Izzy always manages to break the yolk when trying to make eggs for herself. Izzy decides she's half in love.

"These are pretty good," Vicky says, like Izzy isn't having a religious experience right next to her. Vicky turns to the little girl, sitting across from her and very seriously spearing her scrambled eggs with her fork. "Whadaya think, Daniela?"

Daniela looks up at her with those big blue eyes. Christ, Isaiah makes cute babies.

"Papi cooks good," she offers, and then brings her fork to her mouth. Isaiah watches her fondly.

For a brief second she wonders who watches the kids for Isaiah while he's off doing whatever he does as work before realizing that she, too, is employed. "Wait. What time is it."

"Ten-thirty," Isaiah says.

"Oh." She feels weak. "My shift started half hour ago."

"I called you in," Vicky says, drinking what smells like coffee and heaven, "Soda answered for some reason, said he'd cover for you 's long as you were in by eleven."

"It's a twenty minute drive from here."

"So we're good."

"I need to change."

Vicky blinks at her. Says, "We should go."

Izzy's rushing out of the door within seconds, but she still manages to hear Isaiah's faint, amused, "Have a good day," as she sprints to her car.

She gets to work with three minutes to spare, mostly because Vicky insisted on driving. Izzy let her, knowing that she would either make it to work on time or die in the process, and considering her ongoing headache one was infinitely preferable to the other. Soda's manning her station and doing a fantastic job, if the blushing blonde is any hint.

He turns that same charming grin he always uses on girls on her. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I think my head's gonna fall off," she says as she steps into the booth, "d'you have any aspirin on you?"

"In my car," he says, watching her with open glee now, "had a rough night, huh, Mathews?"

"Vic's a menace," she says, and pulls her hair up into a better ponytail than the one she managed on the drive over. Soda makes himself comfortable instead of scramming; if she were feeling the slightest bit more human she might ask what the kitchens are looking like, or maybe ask what exactly he does back there. It's clear he'd rather bum around up front with her, not that dealing with customers is the easiest thing in the world. The old ones get catty, sometimes.

"So you were in Brumly, huh?" His shit-eating grin ain't half as charming in this light.

"You used to spend time out there too, didn't you?" Izzy manages to toss back, and then watches, intrigued, as his face goes a bit pink. "You and Lisa—"

"I can't talk to you about 1967," he tells her, very seriously, though the effect is ruined by his efforts to not keep smiling. "'s not so bad out there, you know."

"Ask who had me drinking _tequila_ ," she says, and then realizes saying that to a friend of her brother's is maybe not the best idea. In fact, this whole conversation seems a bit odd, considering how long she's known Soda and how he's always run around with Two-Bit. Oh, he's nice to her alright, Soda's always been good with girls. They've just never been buddies, and this feels like a conversation she would have with Vicky, not someone she technically works with. "Wait. What did Vicky tell you?"

"Said you was out celebrating sending out your college applications," he says, leaning on an elbow. His hair might not be greased back the way it used to be, but he's still got a lot of swagger all by himself. Still attracts girls like flies to honey, not that she's seen him with a steady in ages, since maybe around the time his notice came in and his life got saved by his own faulty heart. That news was crazy and exhilarating and unbelievable all at once. She might have half-prayed the same fate would hit Two-Bit, much as she hates to admit it. Trade one death for another—it had seemed like a good idea. Maybe Soda'd hoped Two-Bit had a bad heart, too. "Who was tryna get you drunk, Izzy?"

"Solis," she says, flat, and hopes her face isn't as pink as she thinks it is. Just thinking about that man has her feeling like a girl with a crush. Maybe she _is_ a girl with a crush.

All she knows is he's a real good-looking guy, and that for her own sanity she's going to pretend she doesn't know everything she already knows about him.

Soda blinks, slowly, and then says, almost like a question, "Glad to see you cut loose, Mathews."

She shrugs. Embarrassed, almost. "Still gotta wait for them to tell me if I'm in."

"You'll get in," he says, "you're as smart as my brother. Smarter, sometimes."

"Why," she says, before she can help herself, "'cause I know Vicky's real good at lying?"

"Oh, is _that_ what we're gonna talk about today?" he deadpans, and grins at her again. Less flashy this time. Izzy likes it better. "That's the problem with being friends with a Bernal, huh?"

"Still don't think Lisa's taking Steve seriously?" Izzy's never understood those two. Maybe they don't even understand themselves.

"She is," Soda says, so assured that Izzy believes him, too. "I guarantee she's gonna steal him come graduation. They're stupid over each other, always have been."

"They ain't even steadies, Soda."

"They are," he says, and straightens up as a customer approaches like this is the position they hired him for and he's not just helping Izzy and her headache out. "In the way that counts, at least."

"What's that?"

He says, just before the man and his date reach the window, shoulders half-shrugging, "They love each other. What else d'you need?"


	6. Me and You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title thanks to LOBO :)

October turns into a blur of school and work and chasing after Vicky, at least until the end of the month. That’s when Izzy decides to act up, too, not that Vicky will ever let her claim it was an idea free of _her_ influence. Vicky’s rapidly losing patience, waiting for Izzy to hear back from any of the schools she applied to, despite her explanation that, usually, it takes longer than a month.

“That’s dumb,” Vicky tells her the second-to-last Friday of the month, “if they want you they should just say so. That’s how it works with everyone else, right?”

“Does it,” Izzy says, because that probably explains her romantic life. Maybe she should listen to her more often.

Vicky gives her a look, like _she’s_ the one not making sense. “Whatcha think?”

“Okay,” Izzy says, instead of anything else. “What time’re you coming over on Sunday?”

“Noon?” Vicky asks, and shifts her books to her other arm. She’s in a tight miniskirt, leather even. Izzy’s uncomfortable just looking at her. “You can make us lunch.”

“Vic.”

She grins. “Show’s at eight, right? We trying to get there early?”

“Seven-thirty?” Izzy suggests as they walk towards her car, “We just gotta leave by five. Four-forty-five, I’m thinking.”

“Hm,” Vic says, “that should work. We’ll eat and then get ready. We really driving back after the show?”

“I have work after school,” Izzy says, “and a test on Monday.”

Vic shakes her head at her as they climb into the car. “I’m telling you, we might as well just skip. Make the test up Tuesday.”

“I’ve got a paper due Wednesday,” Izzy says as they drive off. They lingered at their lockers to avoid the rush, so it’s not too much trouble to get away from the school today, at least not compared to what it looked like twenty minutes earlier.

“So get it done this weekend.”

“I work all day tomorrow.”

“Your life is so hard,” Vic drawls, feet on the dashboard, pack of cigarettes in hand. “I dunno how you do it.”

“Mhm,” she says, “how you paying for things again?”

“Lisa sends me money,” Vicky says, nose up like it makes her a princess or something, “don’t look at me like that, Mathews, I don’t even ask for it and she sends me a wire transfer anyway.”

“Perks of having a big sister, huh?”

“Sure,” Vicky says, rolling her eyes. She picks at her nails for a moment, then says, “Two-Bit write at all this month?”

Izzy swallows. “Yeah. Letter came in Monday. He’s alright.”

“Just alright?”

“What,” she says, a little petulant, “you think he’s gonna gimme every detail? He’s at war, Vicky.”

“Mhm,” Vicky says, and Izzy can see her watching her from the corner of her eye. “How’d your ma take it?”

“Like she always does.” Which is to say, she read the letter and then went to make herself a drink with the liquor from Two-Bit’s rapidly disappearing stash. It’s been a two-person effort; Izzy can’t take all the credit for that one. Vicky lets the topic rest between them.

Vicky lets out a big sigh when they pull up outside her house. Izzy’s pretty sure it’s mostly an act.

“I’ll leave you alone today,” she says, very dramatically, “but only ‘cause _I_ got a paper due Friday, and I wanna get all my stuff for the week done by the time we leave for Wichita.”

“How you gonna do that?”

“By writing very fast,” she says, solemn, but then she cracks a grin. The Bernal girls got the prettiest smiles in town—Izzy will give them that. “See you Sunday, Mathews.”

When she _does_ show up on Sunday, it’s with enough bags on her to make Izzy question their plans for the night.

“Are we spending the night up there now?”

“No,” Vicky says, blinking at her, “I wasn’t sure what we were gonna wear. And makeup. All’a yours looks bad on me.”

“I’m pale,” she says in defense, not that Vicky listens. She gets her stuff spread out on the bed—tubes of lipstick and lip stain, blush and powder and tubes of mascara. “Why do you need that, anyway? Your eyelashes are longer than you need ‘em.”

“My hair ain’t that dark,” she says, organizing everything by product type. For all the mess she makes of Izzy’s room, she likes her own shit neat. “Oh, you should try this, the new Maybelline’s amazing.”

“Pretty sure you ain’t supposed to share brushes, Vic,” Izzy says, and pulls her closet open. Considers the contents for a long minute, not sure where to start. Everything looks too bright.

Vicky says, “Why not?”

Izzy looks at her. “How many guys you let finish on your face this week, honey?”

Vicky’s mouth drops open. “Izzy!”

“That ain’t an answer,” she says, turning back to her closet, trying not to grin at Vicky’s astounded _You of all people ain’t got the right—_“What are we gonna wear, anyway?”

“This ain’t over,” she says, warningly, and then throws herself to her feet again, shoulder to shoulder with Izzy while they stare down her closet. “Where are those hot-pants you never wear?”

“I’m not wearing them,” Izzy says, flat. “ _You_ can.”

“Live a little,” Vicky says, and then pulls a Rolling Stones tee out from seemingly nowhere. “Keep the shorts you’re wearing on. You got tights?”

“ _Tights_?”

“You know,” Vicky says, throwing the shirt at her, “stockings. Black ones.”

Izzy sees where she’s going. Considers the shirt for a moment, glances back at her closet. She says, “Probably.”

“Look for them!”

“And you?” Izzy says, squatting down to see if she’s got a pair somewhere in her little hamper full of unmatched socks. She never matches them; too much of a hassle, and who cares, really, as long as they’re clean.

“Miniskirt,” she says, and when Izzy glances over at her she finds Vicky digging through all her lipsticks. “That black denim one I got last week, remember?”

“The one that cost—”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Vicky interrupts her, rolling her eyes even as Izzy goes _Aha!_ when she finds the fishnets she was looking for, “that one. And a blouse.”

“A _blouse_?”

“I’m not wearing anything underneath,” she says, like a warning, and, well. That makes more sense.

Izzy lets her know: “You never do.”

“Shut up and start putting your makeup on,” Vicky says. Scolding, practically. She sounds like Lisa when she does that. They’re more alike than anyone realizes, really.

“Ain’t you hungry?” Izzy says. When she glances at the clock in her room it barely reads one o’clock. Vicky squints at her.

“Lemme guess. Spaghetti?”

“No,” Izzy says, face hot. Maybe she was thinking of it. “We got stew.”

“Meat and potatoes?”

“What else,” Izzy says, and hustles the both of them to the kitchen.

Izzy’ll never understand how they can take so long to get ready. It’s not even a Vicky thing—Izzy herself takes just as long to put makeup on, for whatever reason, even if she foregoes the eyeshadow and sticks to lip balm. They’re out the door at exactly five-forty-four, Izzy’s mother yelling at them to be safe as they drive off. The drive ain’t too bad, even if it’s all the way to Wichita, and they get to the venue with minimal issue, despite nearly getting off at the exit to Oklahoma City. Vicky had started yelling. They’re lucky they didn’t crash.

They’re there to see Traffic and the J Geils Band—Vicky stayed true to herself and ditched her bra, tied her yellow blouse low, batting her eyes at any good-looking boy who glanced their way. This works out exactly how she planned it to, with some boy with too-long hair offering them a spiff in no time.

“Thanks,” Vicky said, blowing smoke circles. Izzy considers the blunt in her hand. She’s supposed to drive them home, and she’s not sure she wants to risk it high, even if it’s just a little weed. She’s pretty sure it’s not as bad as driving while drunk. Vicky makes the decision for her, though, taking another hit while the guy—not awful-looking, but not any better than Lisandro—watches her with hungry eyes.

Vicky’s bored easily, though. She lets him get his weed back and then takes Izzy by the hand, arms swinging between them as she hustles them away. “Thanks!” she calls over her shoulder, and Izzy stifles a giggle when she turns back and sees the guy looking confused.

“When’s the last you paid for your weed?”

“Never,” she says, their fingers still laced, “I’m good to drive, though, if you want me to on the way back.”

“I’m good,” Izzy says. It reeks of cheap bear, here, worse than the stuff she drinks, even. She’d rather get a shot or something. Maybe Solis was right about something, that time they crashed his party.

Soon enough the music catches their attention, and the two of them twist themselves to a decent spot near the front. They’re not _too_ close, though; there are plenty of deals going on in the crowd that Izzy carefully turns a blind eye to. Not that it stops someone else—better-looking, hair slicked back, in a leather jacket that Izzy can smell, it’s so expensive—from making his move. He comes up to them after Traffic climbs off stage, Vicky hollering next to her about an encore.

“Hey,” the guy says. He’s eyeing Izzy up in an interesting way. She thinks she likes it, but that might be the contact high from the rest of the crowd. “Y’all wanna hit?”

There’s two pills in his palm. Izzy stares.

“How much?” Vicky says from over her shoulder. There’s already a bill clutched between her fingers.

“First one’s on me,” he says, grinning. He’s a little snaggle-toothed. Izzy might be into it, but again. It’s been awhile.

“I’ll drive,” Vicky says against her ear. Later, Izzy might call it a moment of weakness; Vicky would say she deserved a good night. Maybe Izzy washes the pill down with a swig of beer from the same guy, and maybe he gets her number. She can’t quite remember the finer details of the rest of the show, but, well, she knows it was a good time, even if she wakes up the next morning with Vicky’s hair in her mouth and her clock telling her that class starts in fifteen minutes.

“I think I’m still high,” Izzy says in the car. She can’t tell whether she’s inhabiting her body yet, or maybe just really tired. Vicky’s driving them today, if her recklessness can be called that, and they’re wearing the same clothes they wore yesterday, reeking of booze and weed, probably. Izzy’s trying to remember what class she has her test in. It’s not going well.

“Huh,” Vicky says, “maybe you should have taken half a tab.”

“I—”

“You have a history test today,” Vicky says as she haphazardly parks. She does a terrible job. She’s not too good at that, honestly. “Civil War. You’ll do fine.”

“Shit.”

“You finished your essay,” Vic reminds her. “’S not too late to ditch, you know. You can just sleep in the backseat ‘til you’re, you know. A real person again.”

“Why did you let me do this,” Izzy says. Maybe she’s pleading.

“We’re late for first period already,” Vicky says, ignoring her. “C’mon, don’t you got extra clothes in your gym locker?”


End file.
